


en l'Année 2014

by ShitpostingfromtheBarricade



Series: In the Year 2014 [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Don't copy to another site, Gen, Omniscient POV, in the year of 1817 modernized, modern retelling of canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:01:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26668633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade/pseuds/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade
Summary: The year 2014 by three weeks preceded Barack Obama, with a sort of presidential presumption not devoid of stateliness, announcing that he had no more campaigns to run.  It was the candid time where Pope Francis snuck out of the Vatican at night to visit the homeless, dressed as a peer of Rome.  The United States army was still wearing the Universal Camouflage Pattern.  Osama bin Laden had been in the North Arabian Sea for three years already.A modern retelling of the events of 1817, 1.3.1-9.Warnings:descriptions of, at times, tragic world events and politics; descriptions of offensive social stances(chapterly warnings provided)
Relationships: Dahlia & Fantine & Favourite & Zéphine (Les Misérables), Fantine/Félix Tholomyès, Félix Tholomyès & Blacheville & Fameuil & Listolier
Series: In the Year 2014 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2018360
Comments: 101
Kudos: 28
Collections: 2020 Brick ReNouveauTions





	1. l’Année 2014

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the [Brick ReNouveauTions](https://brickrenouveautions.tumblr.com/) event on tumblr! Please check out what everyone created, it's really amazing!
> 
> A thousand thanks to MuseInAbsentia for sensitivity reading some spots and her invaluable feedback.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: This entire series is intended to be a very close modern parallel to Victor Hugo's original third book of volume one, "In the year 1817." In the first chapter, he covers many events in extremely brief detail to set the scene. I have attempted to match this style and tone, but in doing so there are some topics that get mentioned of a very sensitive nature (including racism, homophobia, and suicide) that are referred to in a very off-handed way.
> 
> This is not reflective of how I believe such topics should be discussed, and were I writing using my own style, I would not bring them up so cavalierly. None of them are joked about, but at times the juxtaposition against lighter topics may feel jarring and lighthearted, and for that, I would like to apologize in advance.

The year 2014 by three weeks preceded Barack Obama, with a sort of presidential presumption not devoid of stateliness, announcing that he had no more campaigns to run. It was the year of Sochi’s fame. Fast fashion chains, hoping for the return of the nineties, were bedecked with power suits and distressed denim. It was the candid time where Pope Francis snuck out of the Vatican at night to visit the homeless, dressed as a peer of Rome, with his white cassock and iron pectoral cross and that majesty of profile peculiar to a man who has done a brilliant deed. The brilliant deed committed by Pope Francis was that, being a cardinal February 28, 2013, he had already quite naturally cultivated a reputation for being more humble and open to discussion than his company — hence his peerage. In 2014 it was the fashion to shame problematic pets on the internet with little signs. The United States army was still wearing the Universal Camouflage Pattern, to be replaced the following year by the Operational Camouflage Pattern, so called “OCP” by those in its service. Osama bin Laden had been in the North Arabian Sea for three years already. In 2014 Caleb Johnson sang, Ricky Ubeda danced, Game of Thrones reigned, TikTok did not yet exist. John Oliver succeeded Stephen Colbert. Flint did not have clean water. JK Rowling was still a respected celebrity. 

In New York City Bloomberg had just been replaced by de Blasio, and stop and frisk rates decreased to half of that when Bloomberg had first taken office and 13 times that of their peak in 2011. Garner’s breath had been withheld, Brown’s cigarettes confiscated, Rice’s playthings forbidden. 

In this year, 2014, two things were popular: _Milk and Honey_ and sillybands. The most recent sensation was the crime of Geyser and Weier, who had attacked their friend in the woods, inspired by Slenderman. They had begun to feel anxious at Malaysian Airlines on account of the lack of news from that fatal plane, flight 370, which was destined to cover Boeing with infamy and Delta Airlines with bonuses. Recording the dumping of a bucket of ice over one’s head was in vogue. Menzel was clawing her way back into the public eye as Williams made his eternal escape. Becky Albertalli sent to three or four friends her unpublished _Simon vs The Homo Sapiens Agenda_ from her office, furnished with a chair in need of grease and a repurposed kitchen table. Hundreds of artifacts were repatriated by the American Department of Homeland Security to Thailand. Lawmakers had abdicated and were to rename the Triborough Bridge the Robert F Kennedy Bridge, an enigma given his relative lack of impact on the state of New York as well as the arbitrary amount of time that had passed since his departure. Congressional lawmakers had two anxieties: party-splitting and educated masses. The Nobel Peace Prize had given for its prize subject The Happiness procured through Study. Yousafzai was to share the prize with Satyarthi; in her shadow could be seen the beginnings of her career at Oxford, destined for mockery by Sri Sri Ravishankar. There was a false Aretha named Mariah, and soon thereafter came a false Mariah called Ariana. A mobile banking app, then known as ISIS, changed its name to SoftCard. A fantastic donation erected UCLA the third and final building of their Stein Plaza trio, called the Edie & Lew Wasserman Building; for Edie and Lew Wasserman, being the namesakes of the Wasserman Foundation that made the project possible, it was evident that the university was of good standing and reputation; otherwise the honor made in response to such a grand donation might not have been so welcome. Having already been made illegal by executive order for federal employees, various state governments continued to debate the safety and legality of texting whilst operating motor vehicles. Bruno Mars, the performer of “Uptown Funk,” a good sort of fellow, with a defined jaw and adventurous taste in headwear, performed at that year’s Super Bowl halftime show; a children’s choir sang the “Billionaire” intro by Travie McCoy. Snowden’s temporary asylum transformed into a residency permit. Colorado’s Civil Rights Commission stood against the Masterpiece Cakeshop, with Mullens and Craig, which upheld the state’s antidiscrimination statutes. Neil Patrick Harris, though the ceremony’s legitimacy would not be recognized nationwide for another year, married his long-time partner and co-parent. Paul Walker had died the year before. Bodyguards quoted Robocop in low tones. Newspapers were all moving online. Their moneymaking model was restricted, but their access to the masses was vast. Unflattering headlines were not yet denounced as fake news. The NYPD twitter page launched a hashtag campaign, the responses to which created a righteous platform at the expense of the city’s finest. 

In outlets which sold themselves, journalists proclaimed that all lives matter. Malcolm X was too extreme; Martin Luther King Jr had the right of it, Barack Obama was already president, and if youth cared so much, they should go out and vote; it is true that young people felt disillusioned with the polls. No one is ignorant of the fact that votes submitted in large, urban cities very rarely get counted in their true entirety, as those who gerrymander states into bite-sized pieces make it their sacred duty to intercept them. This is no new fact: Hale and the Russell brothers complained of it in their papers. Now Minaj, having on twitter shown some displeasure at not being nominated for the VMAs, struck some people as amusing, and they derided her for her claims of discrimination. A person’s identity came down to the language they used, whether they said illegals or immigrants, riots or protests, antifa or antifascist. All sensible people were agreed on the point that racism had been ended forever by President Barack Obama., surnamed The First Black President of the United States. After swearing in on the Capitol Lawn two years earlier and again four years before that, the president had arrived on Constitution Avenue and passed by the National Gallery of Art and its primarily European-based collections, the Ronald Reagan Building and International Trade Center, located conveniently in Woodrow Wilson Plaza, past the Smithsonian’s National Museum of African Art with its all white staff of curators, and to that landmark which had required the swamps to be manually drained and later built upon by enslaved persons — that is, the White House. Speaker John Boehner, in the lower house of Congress, was drawing up a rough draft of his call to action for republicans. The leaders of the moderate right said at grave conjunctures, "We must reach a compromise with the Tea Party." Cruz, Huckabee, Paul, Perry, Santorum, and Jindal were all preparing the sketch of what was to become later on in the 2016 election. McConnell was conferring with Rubio. Romney, who was liberal to a degree, reigned. Stewart would wake up, refresh himself on the day’s news, and review his lines on the way to the studio. Followers of any repute took Solange’s side over Jay Z. Ebola was rampant. The Affordable Healthcare Act was decried as Obamacare. The Central Intelligence Agency apologized to the Senate Intelligence Committee for spying on the investigation of them. The Pennsylvania Avenue Postal Tower was being renovated at expense of its lease holder. People asked themselves, “What would Rush Limbaugh do?”; Azalia differed on diverse points from Azealia; Rangel was not satisfied. Miss Saigon, which belonged first to West End and which Broadway had only been able to copy, rejoiced in its revival and the continued celebration of Vietnamese culture; in honor of the occasion, West End generously bestowed official lines in the script to be spoken in the language. People took sides for or against vaccinations. Jenner was factious; Lawrence was revolutionary. The DiGiorno twitter account published on the #WhyIStayed hashtag. "That will attract the youth," said the ingenious manager. The general opinion was that Elon Musk would be the genius of the century; basic humanity was beginning to gnaw at him — a sign of glory — and Tsuga would later say of him:

"He is a genius who defies common sense and can be overly optimistic."

As President Yanukovych was unanimously told to step down; Vladimir Putin, then-elected president of Russia, called a secret overnight meeting. The crisis over the Crimean Peninsula had begun between Ukraine and Russia by the takeover of the Supreme Council of Crimea. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, ignored, was erecting her platform. There was a celebrated Neil at the Academy of Science, whom posterity has forgotten; and in some forgotten classroom an obscure Neil whom the future will recall. N.K Jemisin was beginning to make her mark; a review on her novel by van Velzen introduced her to the world in these terms: a true superstar of fantasy literature. Lin Manuel-Miranda was researching founding fathers. Star Tribune was rating well, to a relatively unreceptive audience, the recently released album of an up and coming musician by the name of Melissa Jefferson, who later became Lizzo. A gaudy thing which extended awkwardly outward from the holder polluted the streetspace; it was a piece of mechanism which was not good for much, a sort of plaything, the idle imaginings of a dream-ridden inventor, an utopia for solo travellers — a selfie stick. The locals stared indifferently at this narcissistic contraption. Nye and Ham entered into a debate on the internet regarding creation and threatened each other with followers on the subject of the divinity of Jesus Christ. Scientists and intellectuals everywhere began to run out of patience with the church and its insistence against climate change.

Adobe, the praiseworthy creator of photo manipulation software, made a thousand efforts to have “photoshop” said “modified using Adobe® Photoshop® software,” and succeeded therein not at all. Cosby, ex-actor, ex-comedian, ex-person of repute, had passed, in everyone’s eyes, to the state of "cancelled." The locution of which we have made use — cancelled — has been condemned as a neologism by boomers. Shops and homes built since 1990 could be easily identified by their adherence to ADA. Justice summoned to its bar a man who, on nearing 200,000 followers, had said in a post, "Cock is one of my favorite tastes. Not only that, but balls smell amazing." A seditious utterance: no more text editing for tumblr. 

Discrimination began to show itself unbuttoned; people who did not believe in true equality made no secret of their recompense and strutted immodestly in the light of day, under the guise of cynicism and the protection of riches and dignities, neo-nazis and neo-fascists, now called “alt-right,” exhibited their devotion to inequity and injustice in the most barefaced manner.

Such was the confused mass of the now-forgotten events that floated like flotsam on the surface of 2014. History ignores almost all these minutiae: it cannot do otherwise; it is under the dominion of infinity. Nevertheless, these details, which are wrongly called trivial — there are no trivial facts in humanity, nor little leaves in vegetation — are useful. It is the details of the years that make up the face of the centuries. 

In this year of 2014, four young New Yorkers had a good laugh on four others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter isn't a perfect parallel: I did cut a couple of lines, and I got a little flexible with two declarations (I don't know if McConnell approached Rubio to encourage him to run, and we can call the as-of-2014 obscure Neil who will become well-known a baseless prediction), but everything else is a reference to a real event that occurred in 2014. If you want me to elaborate on any of them or confirm your suspicions, just drop a comment or PM me!


	2. Double Quatuor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: brief suggestion of sexuality, evidence of past disrespect toward a woman of color (not graphic, Félix is just an ass) 
> 
> Thanks so much to Zanatte for helping with the Spanish!!

Of the New Yorkers, one was from Los Angeles, another from Chicago, the third from San Francisco, and the fourth from Washington DC; but they were students, and to live in NYC is to be of NYC.

These young men were unremarkable. Everyone knows the type, and these four serve as fine examples: neither good nor bad, neither learned nor ignorant, neither talented nor stupid; handsome in that charming April of life we call twenty. They were four Chads; for at this time, Brads did not yet exist. “Everybody make some noise!” exclaim the underclassmen. “My boy Chad! Chad’s coming at you hot!” DJ Khaled was everywhere; elegance was champagne and fancy cars; the business-casual type was not prevalent till later, and the first of the Brads — Elon Musk — had only just launched SpaceX. 

The first of these Chads was called Félix Tholomyès, of LA; the second, Listolier, from San Fran; the third, Fameuil, from Chicago; and the last, Blacheville, from DC. Of course, each had his lady: Blacheville loved Favourite, with the u because she had been to England once; Listolier adored Dahlia, who had chosen to assume the name of a flower when she moved out from her parents'; Fameuil idolized Zéphine, a nickname for Josephine; and Tholomyès had Fantine, called ‘the blonde’ because of her beautiful hair, which shone like the newly-released iPhone 6 plus in gold. 

Favourite, Dahlia, Zéphine, and Fantine were four working girls, perfumed and made up, still somewhat students since they hadn’t finished all of their classes, plagued by relationship drama yet maintaining that livelihood of the young and beautiful and the resilient hopefulness that enables women to survive that first fall. One was called ‘the baby’ because she was the youngest, and another was called ‘Grandma’ — Grandma was twenty-three. To put it plainly, the first three were well-versed in the ways of the world, and Fantine the Blonde was still rather innocent. 

Dahlia, Zéphine, and particularly Favourite were not. Favourite had already had far more than the average amount of drama in her relationship — ‘the drama’ named Adam the first time, Alex the second, and Augustus the third. Debt and vanity are awful consciences: one says you shouldn’t, the other says you should, and beautiful women always seem to have both. When they inevitably make a misstep, society punishes them for it. All the world, just barely out of reach! Did Watson ever long for more?

Favourite, having been to England that one time, was Zéphine and Dahlia’s idol. She’d had her own place off-campus even as a freshman. Her dad was a proud, self-important math professor who never got married; when he was younger, his secretary bent over to pick up some papers he’d knocked to the floor, and without meaning to, he’d fallen in love. Favourite was the result. She still saw her dad on campus sometimes, and when she did he’d give a distracted nod as he hurried off to wherever he was going. 

One morning, an old woman let herself into Favourite’s apartment. “Do you know who I am?”

“No.”

“I’m your mother.” Immediately she’d helped herself to the contents of Favourite’s fridge and made herself at home in the guest bedroom. Favourite’s mom was a mean old hag: she never talked to her daughter and would sit around for hours without saying anything, she ate enough for four, and when she did leave it was to go to the building’s lobby to gossip and complain about Favourite.

Listolier had a nail fetish, and Dahlia had beautiful nails which she was careful to maintain with regular manicures and a healthy regiment of promiscuity. All Zéphine had to do was say “Yes Sir” in a particular tone to have Fameuil wrapped around her little finger.

The lads were all friends, and the girls got along well, so it was convenient.

There’s a difference between being wise and being philosophical: Favourite, Zéphine, and Dahlia were philosophical where Fantine was wise. But how can Fantine be wise and then go ahead and date Tholomyès? Well, Solomon would argue that to know love is a prerequisite for being wise. This was Fantine’s first relationship: the others may not have been strangers to hook-ups, but for Fantine, sex had meaning.

Fantine, rather than being born, seemed summoned out of nowhere: she had no mother or father, and her birth records must have disappeared with them, so for a long time she had no name either. They had taken to calling her ‘Fantine’ at the agency over the time in which she’d had no papers, and it stuck. She got her first job when she was ten and moved out on her own into the city when she was fifteen, getting into a local university upon graduating with the help of her meager savings and several sizable financial aid packages. Her only wealth was her beauty, gold and pearls in her hair and teeth. Having no other savings, she worked and studied to survive; in order to live, she also loved.

She loved Tholomyès.

To him, it was a fling; to Fantine, it was everything. Frat row knew their courtship well; they would meet at parties, air thick with booze and smoke and sex; Fantine would always leave before things became too heated, but she’d never stay away so long as to discourage him. It was a game of sorts, and Fantine lost.

Blacheville, Listolier, and Fameuil made up their own group of which Tholomyès was the leader. He was the brains of the operation.

Tholomyès’s family was well off and gave him a very comfortable allowance. For thirty years old, he was in terrible shape: his face was wrinkled, his teeth were falling out, and he was already balding. He liked to joke, “Hair at thirty, knees at forty!” His body didn’t agree with most foods (not that this discouraged him), and he had a weepy eye to boot; he made up for all of this with his personality. He replaced his teeth with jests, his hair with joy, his health with irony, and his weeping eye was always cheerful. He was not unlike a decorated corpse. He wrote a play once that would never be published but that he loved to brag about, told people how he enjoyed dabbling in poetry from time to time, and moreover, doubted everything everyone said with a certain air of authority and superiority that no person with self-awareness enough to understand how little they know would ever dare. 

Naturally, this all made him the perfect leader for their band.

One day, Tholomyès took the boys aside and said, “The girls have been wanting a surprise for almost a year now, and we promised we’d do something special. The way they keep bringing it up, they’re starting to sound like my dad’s third wife: _‘No es chiste! Que a mí no me importa Jacob no ayuda: si tú no me ayudas, te me vas de la casa, que aquí no estoy de criada.’” 1_

“What does that mean?” asked Fameuil.

“That she was about to turn off my 360. But yeah, the girls are always like, ‘Tholomyès, you promised!’ Meanwhile, our parents have been complaining that they don’t see enough of us. I think the answer here’s pretty obvious.” 

Tholomyès lowered his voice to relay his scheme, an idea so unheard of that it left all of them cackling, with Blacheville exclaiming, “You’re brilliant!”

They came across a bar soon after and went their separate ways. The next time they saw the girls, the boys invited them out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1Spanish, "This isn't a joke! I don't care if Jacob helps [around his house]: if _you_ don't help [here], then you don't live here! I'm not your maid!" [return]  
> (Do they have maids? Yes, but Third Wife grew up in a household where children were expected to show respect for their parents and home, and Félix basically treats Third Wife like help because that's how he is.)
> 
> Does "Watson" refer to the actress, the supercomputer, or the Conan-Doyle character? It's up to you.


	3. Quatre a Quatre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: brief reference to a crude sexual act (no details)

In 2020 it’s difficult to imagine a group of eight students out and about as it had been pre-pandemic. New York City no longer has the urban rush to it, and the feel of the streets has completely changed over the past six months: in place of crowded buses, we now have social distancing; in place of bustling crowds, her residents have grown only more standoffish; we say “wear your mask” today as we once said “stop masturbating in this subway car.” The New York City of 2020 is a city that has upstate New York hesitantly whispered throughout.

The four couples painstakingly accomplished all that the city had to offer non-tourists. It was the beginning of summer break. The night before, Favourite, the only one of the women with Tholomyès’s personal cell number, texted him, “Hope your asses like dawn.” So they all got up at 5 and took the bus to the Brooklyn Bridge to watch the sunrise, marvelling out loud, “It must be so beautiful when there’s no air pollution!” They had breakfast at Joseph Leonard, which Jesse Tyler Ferguson had already visited two years earlier, played frisbee in Madison Square Garden, climbed to the top of Rat Rock, played poker with Starbursts at Sheep’s Meadow, collected scarves and jewelry from various vendors, bought pizza at Joe’s, drank iced coffees everywhere, and were perfectly content.

The microcosm of sisterhood tittered and talked as though schoolgirls once more. It was a perfect morning. From time to time they bumped their shoulders against the boys’. To be so snugly embraced in the carelessness of youth! Oh, whoever you may be, do you not remember? Have you been out in the world, held to no one’s account but your own? Have you seen an exhibit and thought to yourself, “Ah, I wish I could experience such a luxury,” only to realize that you can? Longed for the $2 McFlurry and recalled that you have $50 budgeted for exactly such expenses?

In the whole day, there was only one setback, which was a brief shower in the afternoon; when they’d first set out that morning, Favourite had sagely commented, “The asters aren’t open: that means it’s going to rain today.”

The girls could have been models. A lyricist, then famous, a fan of film who knew Fey, Mrs. Benjamin, as she picked her way between halal food carts, seeing them pass about two o'clock in the afternoon, and exclaimed, "There is one too many of them," as she thought of The Plastics. Favourite, Blacheville's friend with benefits, the thrice-over senior and group grandma, stayed well ahead of the others, stopping at stands and shops and pop-ups as she pleased. Zéphine and Dahlia, whose beauty complemented one another’s perfectly, never left each other’s sides; this was more because they knew this made them look more attractive and because they had a whole range of poses that they’d practiced in the mirror together than it was from any real sense of friendship. Despite their excitement, they both adopted and maintained an air of casual boredom, a habit they’d picked up from magazines, and they wore their makeup so that the tips of their wings nearly met the edges of their brows. Listolier and Fameuil occupied themselves explaining to Fantine the politics of their university’s law professors, particularly Professors Delvincourt and Blondeau.

Blacheville seemed perfectly content following Favourite around with her midnight crocodile bucket bag from the 2014 Christian Dior Diorific Spring collection over his arm.

Tholomyès followed, dominating the group. He was in a splendid mood, but there remained a degree of pomp in his step, a certain self-important air to the way he held himself; his statement piece was a pair of salmon Brooks Brother bermuda shorts embellished with small navy anchors; he wore a Daytona Yellow Gold 116528 Rolex on his wrist and, since he denied himself nothing, held a spliff between his lips. Nothing was sacred to him: he smoked.

"Isn’t Tholomyès incredible?" said everyone with veneration. "What style! What energy!"

Fantine was a splendor to behold, her smile turned up to an absolute eleven. She had a broad-brimmed sunhat adorned with a patterned ribbon, but she held it more often than she wore it. Her thick blond hair, which was inclined to wave and didn’t hold styles well, quickly slipped out of the bun she’d tied it into that morning and flowed beautifully behind her in tandem with the streamers of the carts they passed. Her lips as she spoke were a deep shade of rose that MAC would envy. Her smile was wide and infectious, but her long, shadowy lashes remained demure and reserved as ever. There was something incredibly striking about her manner of dress. Though she wore a cropped tee that bared a slice of skin above her midriff, her skirt remained tea-length, light blue and dotted with purple lilacs, whose presence can carry the meanings both of youthful innocence and confidence and of a first love. The other girls, less modest (as we have already said), wore jean shorts and low sheer v-necks, which, in the afternoon heat of summer on the streets of Manhattan, are very classy; however, juxtaposed with these outfits, Fantine’s ensemble, with its suggestions, implications, and reticence, simultaneously concealing and displaying, seemed an absolute snack, and Tan France would have been proud. Sometimes, the quiet ones are the most ingenious. It’s been known to happen.

We could go on and on about her hair, her eyes, the bloom of her veins through translucent skin, but the reader by now should have an understanding of Fantine’s appearance. The nature of her beauty was suggested, rather than announced, and it might be supposed that she did not understand her own worth. A poetic soul who views everything around them through rose-tinted glasses might see Fantine and perceive her as the height of everything a young student ought to be. This child of mystery had been genetically blessed: she was not merely beautiful in appearance, but also in her carriage.

We have said that Fantine was joy; she was also modesty.

It was clear to anyone familiar with Fantine that, in the midst of her glory years, her first love, and the radiance that accompanies young summer, she still held herself with incredible reserve. In truth, she was still amazed. This humility is what separates Lil Nas X from Kanye. Though, as we will see further evidence of soon, Fantine would refuse Tholomyès nothing, she still held herself in an extremely chaste fashion, reserved in her manner of speech, expression, and overall body language. From time to time she would very suddenly fall into deep contemplation, expression shifting from joy to solemnity, her countenance hearkening imagery of a displeased goddess; and just as suddenly, the shift would occur again, as though she had never fallen into contemplation. Her brow, nose, and chin all seemed made for this changing of mood, that which brought Aragorn to fall for Arwen in Rivendell.

If love is a fault, so be it: Fantine was only improved for it.


	4. Tholomyès est Si Joyeux qu’il Chante une Chanson Espagnole

Manhattan was showing off that day. All of nature seemed determined to put forth its finest work. The flowerbeds of Central Park perfumed the air; the breath of the Harlem River rustled the leaves and signage alike; the branches gesticulated in the wind, bees pillaged the clover; along the most scenic part of the water’s edge there was a pack of iridescent vagabonds, the pigeons.

The four merry couples, kissed by sunlight, fresh air, nature, and churros, were resplendent.  
And in this community of Paradise, talking, singing, running, dancing, chasing butterflies, plucking wildflowers, sandals damp with morning dew, fresh, wild, they were full of free love and exchanged kisses freely among themselves — all except Fantine, who declined with that sort of dreamy vagueness she seemed to embody, and who was in love. "Why are you always so weird?" Favourite asked, and without bothering to wait for an answer she turned away once more.

Such things are joys. These are the moments between friends and couples alike that make the world seem a better place to be and make life worth living. It is said that spring was invented to be enjoyed by lovers and will continue to exist so long as there is romance to be had and a place in which to have it — this is why spring always feels so magical. The refined and the rural, the wealthy and the wanting, the judge and the jury, the politicians and the people: none are immune to this spell. They laugh and hunt, and there is in the air the satisfaction of fruition — the transformation afforded by love! Officiants become gods. And the cries! The clandestine excursions on soft grass, the tremulous exchange of tender touch, the tender trading of sweet nothings, those cherries stolen from one mouth by another — all of this blazes forth and takes its place in paradise among the stars. Beautiful women abandon purity. Everyone is sure that this will never come to an end. Philosophers, poets, painters, observe this perfection and cannot comprehend it, so greatly are they enamored with it. All you need is love! cries Lennon; BillyPotts, artist of tumblr, contemplates connection without words, which have flitted away in a period of inebriation; Silverstein stretches a tree’s limbs around it in all of its phases and forms, and Waheed mingles line breaks with it.

After lunch the four couples went to the Solomon R Guggenheim Museum to see a newly arrived exhibit from Iceland, whose name escapes our memory at this moment, and which, at that point in time, was attracting Icelandophiles from all corners of the city. It was an odd and charming installation with nine screens, whose numerous musicians, eccentric and bold, each independently played parts arranged by Ragnar Kjartansson and Davíð Þór Jónsson; this gave the exhibit the air of a fully realized musical group. There was always an admiring crowd about it.

They continued toward East Harlem, and after finding a stand selling honey roasted almonds and agreeing on a price, Tholomyès exclaimed, "Here are your nutsacks!". At Thomas Jefferson Park, an incident occurred. The truly national park, at that time owned by the city, happened to be open to the public. They passed the gates, paid respects to royalty in their concrete courts, experimented with the effects of the abandoned pieces of chalk upon blacktop. They had entered the playground and knocked loose two of the swings from where all of them had been carefully perched atop the bar by some playful trickster. As he swung these hard-earned treasures, one after the other, producing peals of laughter and a scene that would make videographers yearn for a camera, the Angeleno Tholomyès, who knew some Spanish from his time in Los Angeles — Los Angeles being a descendent of that _Pueblo de Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Ángeles_ founded by _los Pobladores_ — to a beat carried in his own heart and soon accompanied by the subpar beatboxing of Fameuil, threw down a rap, probably inspired by one of the beauties dashing in full flight on a seat between to towers:

       
_"Ella prende las turbinas, no discrimina_   
_"No se pierde ni un party de marquesina_   
_"Se acicala hasta pa' la esquina_   
_"Luce tan bien que hasta la sombra le combina_   
_"Asesina, me domina_   
_"Janguea en carros, motoras y limusinas_   
_"Llena su tanque de adrenalina_   
_"Cuando escucha reggaetón en las bocinas." 1_   


Fantine alone refused to ride.

"Probably too difficult with that stick up her ass," muttered Favourite.

After leaving the park was a new delight; they crossed the Robert F Kennedy Bridge — as we have said before, then and still called by locals The Triborough — in a cab, and proceeding from Bronx Shore road on foot they found a place to rent bicycles. They had been up since five o'clock that morning, as the reader will remember; but bah! there is no such thing as too much fun on a Sunday, said Favourite; on Sunday, exhaustion takes the day off.

Around five o'clock, the four couples, almost impossibly gleeful, were gliding around Ward’s Island bike path, oohing and ahhing at scenery of Randall’s Island Park and inventing stories about the nearby water treatment plant, which to them was a source of endless mystery and amusement.

From time to time Favourite would say, "What about the surprise? I want the surprise!"

"Patience," Tholomyès would respond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1Daddy Yankee’s “Gasolina” (annotated lyrics [here](https://genius.com/12559886/)); be sure to imagine it with a terrible American accent for full effect [return]


	5. Chez Olive Garden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a reference to an ongoing social movement that had begun in 2013 and remains unresolved; the author does not support the stance nor tagline mentioned here (which I hope is evident by literally Everything Else).

Having exhausted the island park, they began to think about dinner, and the radiant party of eight, at last growing somewhat tired, took a Lyft to Olive Garden, a chain first set up in Orlando by the famous corporation General Mills, whose banners at that time could still be seen flying from the second level.

It contained a large and ugly room, a stairwell leading to the second floor (the place was so full this Sunday that they had to make do with this arrangement); from two windows they could see, between the billboards, the ticket booth for a vast array of Broadway shows, and a magnificent artificial light glanced across the panes. There were three tables; one was buried beneath a triumphant mountain of hats, scarves, and prohibitively excessive accessories that they had accrued throughout the day, mingled with half-melted ice coffees and discarded wrappers, while at the other two the couples were seated around a joyful abundance of plates, napkins, cups, and bottles; cans of light beer and glasses of wine. There was very little order on the table, and some disorder beneath it. 

On this disorder the Disk Jockey Casper says:

    “Right foot, let's stomp;  
“Left foot, let's stomp;  
“Right foot again;  
“Left foot again;  
“Right foot, let's stomp;  
“Left foot, let's stomp.  
“Freeze:  
“Everybody clap your hands.”1

This was the state in which the city crawl, begun at five o'clock in the morning, had reached at half-past six in the evening. Daylight was coming to its natural end; so too, were the appetites of this joyful party.

Times Square, filled with sunlight and people, was nothing but light and dust, the two things of which glory is composed. The cabs of New York City, those fluorescent marvels, were blurs of light and color. People were going and coming. A squadron of magnificent taxi-cabs, with their toplights at their head, were descending upon West 45th; the billboard overhead, tinged faintly red by setting sun, advertised Hershey. Broadway, which at the time was showing Hedwig and the Angry Inch, was choked with happy tourists. Many wore starry blue crosses over a red field, the battle flag for the army of northern Virginia, which had not yet wholly disappeared from use in the year 2014. Here and there, ringed in by applauding spectators, circles of little ones let fly a chant turned to song in the mouths of children deriding the response to George Zimmerman’s acquittal, which ran:

    “Blue lives matter! Blue lives matter!”

Groups of dwellers from the suburbs in their Sunday best, sometimes even decorated with the latest fashions like celebrities, were blocking foot traffic and trying to take pictures of famous sights; others were engaged in drinking; some travelling businessmen rolled up their sleeves; their laughter was audible. Everything was radiant. It was a moment of undisputed peace and profound upper class security; it was a time when a special and private report of an undercover officer to the chief of police on the subject of the boroughs of New York City dispatched this report:

"Taking all things into consideration, Chief, there is nothing to be feared from New Yorkers. They are as stubborn and as self-involved as cats. The country is united in rural communities; it is not in New York City. This is a very diverse populace, Chief. It would take all of two of them to cause division amongst themselves. There is nothing to be feared from the populace of New York City. It is remarkable that the stature of this population should have grown so resentful of themselves; and the cost of living is only rising. It is not in danger of unification. In short, it is a collection of individuals."

Government officials and tools of the state do not deem it possible that a cat can transform itself into a lion; it can happen, however, and in that lies the miracle wrought by the people of New York. Moreover, the cat so despised by Commissioner Bratton was held as the ideal toward which the country should strive. In their eyes it was liberty incarnate; and as though to manifest the revolutionary spirit of the Place de la Concord in Paris, there stood just south of Ellis Island, that island which only one hundred years past filtered through the forefathers of today’s great American leaders, the colossal copper figure of Libertas. The ingenuous police beheld the populace of New York City in too downcast a light; it is not so much of "a self-involved rabble" as it is thought. The New Yorker is to the American what the Parisian was to the French: no one keeps stranger hours, no one is more frank and upfront, no one can better assume the air of dismissiveness; let them not be trusted nevertheless: they are prepared for any sort of chaos or interruption; but when there is injustice, they are worthy of admiration in every form of fury. Give them silence, they will produce July 1917; give them a cobblestone, you will have Stonewall. They are Occupy Wall Street's reserves and MLK's frontline. In a crisis of country, they will volunteer; in a crisis of liberty, they will take to the streets. Beware! Their canvas-wielding rage is epic; their face coverings seat themselves like the helm of Athena. Take care! They will turn the first street at which resistance is met into Appomattox. When the hour strikes, these people of the boroughs will grow in stature; these lone riders will unite, and their gaze will be terrible, and their breath will become a tempest, and there will issue forth from that carcinogen-infested chest enough wind to unfold the Appalachians. It is thanks to the New Yorker that revolution remains alive in America. They work intently: it is their nature. Redirect this ethic to a new target, and you will see! As long as they focus on only their goings-on, they will merely change America; set their focus on humanity, and they will change the world.

This disclaimer added to the officer’s report, we will return to our four couples. The dinner, as we have said, was drawing to its close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1DJ Casper’s “Cha Cha Slide” [return]
> 
> Appomattix is an imperfect translation, but Caudine Forks's perfect, flawless, and bloodless victory doesn't really have an equal.


	6. Chapitre ou l’on s’Adore

Friendly banter, lover’s banter: it is impossible for one to disguise itself as the other. If lover’s banter is a cloud, then friendly banter is smoke.

Fameuil and Dahlia were humming. Tholomyès was drinking. Zéphine was laughing, Fantine smiling, Listolier blowing a kazoo that he had happened upon that morning.

Favourite gazed tenderly at Blachevelle and said, "Blachevelle, I adore you."

Blacheville then asked, "What would you do, Favourite, if I were to stop loving you?"

"What?" cried Favourite. "That isn’t funny, don’t even joke about that!! If you stopped loving me, I would chase you down, beat you, tie you up, throw you into the river, and then have you arrested."

Blachevelle grinned with the glee of a man who is very pleased with himself. 

Favourite continued. "You think I’m joking. I would go right down to the station on 6th! I’d be inconsolable, and I would leave out _nothing."_

Blachevelle sank back in his chair, pleased with this response.

In the din that followed, Dahlia paused eating to quietly say to Favourite, "So you really love Blacheville?"

"What? No, he’s awful," replied Favourite in the same low tone, picking up her fork. "He’s boring. I’ve been eyeing the guy who lives across the hall from me. He’s so nice, have you met him? He’s obviously an actor. I love actors. When he gets home, his mom is always like, `Ah, I see my migraine has returned. Do you always have to make all that noise in the apartment?' So he goes out to fire escapes, up on the rooftop, as high as he can go, and once he’s there he practices monologues and halves of dialogues and bits and scraps of musicals. You know how I know? Because I can still hear him in my living room! He earns fifteen dollars an hour at an attorney's office as a scribe. He’s the son of a retired choir director from that nondenominational tabernacle downtown. He’s _so_ nice. He adores me, too. One day, he saw that I was baking, and he said, ‘Can I put in a request for a cutie-pie — oh! It looks like one’s already been made!’ Only true artists can be that clever. And he’s _so_ nice. Honestly, every time he walks into the same room as me I totally forget what I was saying for a minute. But whatever, I tell Blachevelle I love him — ah, I’m the worst, I’m the actual worst!"

Favourite paused, then went on. "I’m just so bored, Dahlia. There’s been nothing to do since exams ended. Blachevelle is so dull, he never wants to go out anywhere. We just faff about all day, as the English would say. I mean, look at this place! We could be eating at Delmonico’s, and instead we’re squashed between a couple signing their divorce papers and little Richie’s 7th birthday party.”


	7. Sagesse de Tholomyès

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MAJOR DISCLAIMERS  
> When I first set out, I made the creative decision to match the voice of the narrator to Victor but to modernize the dialogue; this chapter features a lot of drunken rambling, and at some points the language becomes quite crass, and I apologize in advance for any offended sensibilities.
> 
> CW for alcohol, drug mention, heart disease mention, intense sexism and objectification
> 
> I have censored one paragraph that contains particularly intense sexist language and sentiments including a defense of sexual assault (though if you have changed your settings not to show Creator's Style, it may not show up). If you wish to read this, you may highlight the text.

In the meantime, the birthday party wrapping itself up, the group continued talking over one another until it was no longer anything but noise. Tholomyès stood up.

"Now, now, let’s all take turns," he said. "Let’s take time to think before we speak!. Fermenting grapes without letting them age makes our wine weak. Rolling stones gather no moss. Take your time, friends! Let’s enjoy our evening! Let’s meditate over our food, make haste slowly. There’s no rush. Consider pizza rolls: if you cook them too hot, they get burnt. Overenthusiasm ruins perfectly good dishes and kills the mood of good dinners. No enthusiasm! Anthony Bordain agrees with Lao Tsu!"

Everyone booed him.

"Shut up, Dude!" called Blachevelle.

"Who invited the fun police?" said Fameuil.

 _"Olive Gardium, Olive Gardii, Olive Gardio!"_ taunted Listolier.

"It’s what Sundays are for," Fameuil jeered.

"We’re not even the ones who’re drunk!" added Listolier.

"Tholomyès," Blachevelle told him, "I need you to observe my zen and carry it in yourself."

"The Secretary of State could teach me about that," retorted Tholomyès.

This extremely weak pun produced the effect of a stone in a pool: John Kerry was a decorated war veteran and competent in his current position. The others only blinked at him.

"Hey," grinned Tholomyès with the renewed confidence of a man who had lost and regained his stock fortunes in a single day. "Come on, why you gotta take everything so seriously? We’re allowed to have a bit of fun sometimes. Wordplay is the shit that Forrest Gump said happens, you know? The pun happens, regardless of context or company, and after your mind is all cleaned out! A lil’ bit of shit doesn’t stop the mighty eagle’s ascent, does it? Of course not. Far be it from me to shit on puns: they’re fine, and I’ll grant them that, but they’re nothing special. Everyone, _everyone,_ throughout time and around the world has made puns! Jesus Christ made a pun to St. Peter, Ben Franklin punned all the time; Mark Twain was a serial punster, and Mac Miller has puns in almost every bop and banger he puts out. And if not for Twain, would anyone ever remember the Nile River Delta? I rest my case. 

“With all of that said, I still hold my earlier position and will say it again now: no enthusiasm, no excitement, no overindulgence, and _especially_ no jokes, joy, games, or plays on words of any kind. Listen: I have the prudence of Heisenberg and the baldness of Walter White. There must be limits to all things, even rebuses. _Est modus in rebus._ Yes, there must be a limit, even to dinners. You ladies are women of the world, you have a soft spot for Starbucks; but they will aid in making that spot even larger and softer. Even in the matter of iced coffees, discretion is essential. Gluttony chastises the glutton, _Gula punit Gulax._ Lactose intolerance is God’s punishment for our overdependence, for enjoying a good thing for too long. And everything good in this world has its own lactose intolerance. All good things must come to an end — the Hebrews said it, Nelly said it, and now I repeat it again; we must practice self-control before self-control practices us! Our appetites must be driven back against a wall at a knife’s point; we must raise our own puppies and then give them away. The wisest of men is he who knows when and how to stop! Trust me: I studied law for a while; I can tell when a question can or cannot be answered; I once wrote an entire essay about the war crimes prior to the Geneva Convention _in Latin;_ I’m studying to be a doctor now. Could an idiot do all of that? And as a future doctor, it is my recommendation that you moderate your desires. As surely as my name is Felix Tholomyès, my advice is good. Happy is he who, when the time comes, has the wisdom to withdraw — like young teens without condoms, or the French."

Favourite listened to all of this with rapt attention. "Félix," said she. "I just _love_ that name. It’s Latin, you know. It means ‘felicitous.’"

Tholomyès went on as though she had not spoken. _"Quirites,_ gentlemen, _caballeros, miei amici._ Don’t you wish you never had to again feel the prick —”

“You make a compelling argument,” said Favourite.

 _“— of love,_ that you could avoid passion and everything it brings with it? It’s not that hard, really. This is everything you need: lemonade, gym day every day, late nights every night, hard manual labor, a job that kicks your ass, weight bands, heavy sleep deprivation, Lacroix, those fancy teas with the flower that blooms when you drop it into the water, and a steady diet of energy drinks and heroin; do this alongside a strict diet, intermediate fasting, cold baths, smelling salts, lead dining ware, those lotions that bleach your skin, and an exfoliating face mask, and you’ll never have to worry about it again."

"I think I’d prefer a woman," said Listolier.

"A woman?" exclaimed Tholomyès, scandalized. "Women can’t be trusted. Oh, how I pity the man who surrenders his heart to a woman! _Females_ can be trusted to be untrustworthy, and nothing else. Eve’s only beef with the serpent is that he was cutting into her business."

"You’re trashed,” Blacheville informed him.

"I’m not!" he protested.

"Then stop being so damned morbid," said Blacheville.

"That, I can do.” Refilling his glass, Tholomyès rose. "Cheers to wine! _Buon vino fa buon sangue 1_ — beg your pardon, I forget that not everyone knows Spanish — and here’s how I know! You can learn a lot about a person from their wine. Senator Dianne enjoys a nice Pinot Gris; Senator Barb is happier with rosé; Chief Charlie prefers a good beer any day, although he has a weakness for Double Eagle; Mayor Garcetti has a strong appreciation for a good Syrah; Representative Doug enjoys nothing more than Château Pétrus — a man of refined tastes; and Representative Ken is the happiest of them all, enjoying an undiscerning half bottle with dinner every evening. Long live that great representative, and long live his dinners, which are greater still! 

“Girls, here’s some advice: make bad choices. Be impulsive. Live scandalously. Love wanders! It isn’t supposed to be work, it’s supposed to be fun! Love goes freely about! It’s been said that error is human; I say, error is love. Darlings, I admire all of you, really. Zéphine! Oh Josephine. You know, you’d be much prettier if you smiled. Your face always scrunches up in a frown when I see you. And Favourite! Hah! So everyone, listen: one day, Blacheville was crossing Dekalb when he saw this slice in a pencil skirt bending over a picnic table at Fort Greene to reach for something. This, of course, prompted Blacheville to immediately fall in love. Who was this goddess of ass? Favourite, of course! Favourite, you have the lips of Scarlet Johansson and Angelina Jolie. I once knew a girl who turned lips into art, and you could be a masterpiece. Toss your cheap lipsticks! Her paints are the only ones worthy of such a canvas. Now, earlier you said you liked my name, which was very kind, thank you, but names are unreliable bastards. I am Félix, but I don’t feel felicity. Words are liars. We can’t trust them to say what they mean. You wouldn’t go to Turkey for their turkey or Thailand for a tie. 

“Miss Dahlia … it would have made so much more sense if you’d called yourself ‘Rose.’ A flower should smell sweet, and a woman should be clever. I have nothing to say about Fantine: she’s a dreamer, musing, pensive, and thoughtful; she is an ancient soul with the body of a nymph and the modesty of a nun, who has somehow wandered into the life of a sorority girl yet is still naïve enough to take refuge in fairy tales, and who sings and prays and stares at the sky without knowing what she’s doing or understanding why; and who, still watching the sky with her head in the clouds, wanders in a garden of her mind’s own imagining. Fantine, no part of your perception of me is real … and she’s not even paying attention. Whatever, no big deal: everything about her is fresh, young, pure, absolute radiance. Fantine could have been called ‘Ruby’ or ‘Bijou,’ and it would have been just as fitting for a gem of her status. 

“Ladies, a second piece of advice: never marry. Marriage is like a skin graft: it either takes, or it doesn’t. Better to avoid it altogether. But hey, I’m probably just wasting my breath saying this anyhow: girls are _obsessed_ with the idea of marriage, nothing that even us most sage of men say can stop it any more than a toad can stop a tidal wave. Fine, whatever; but if you remember nothing else, remember this: sugar is poison. You all have one fatal flaw, and it’s your iced coffees. You can’t get enough of them. Now, listen to me: sugar is a salt. Salt is bad for your cells, and sugar is the worst salt; it makes your veins small and causes build-up, which makes it harder to push blood through your veins; your heart works harder to do this, and one day you die. If you drink fewer iced coffees, you will live. 

“And now, to my peers, I grant this advice. Gentlemen: fuck bitches. Fuck your friends’ bitches, your enemy’s bitches, all of the bitches — here, there, everywhere. Where women are involved, it’s free game, and all bets are off. All’s fair in women and war, after all. A beautiful woman can be used to rationalize all manner of sins; to be born female is to be guilty by birth and deserving of all of the consequences that follow. Every conflict in the history of the world has come down to women. They’re man’s right, after all. Romulus took the Sabines; Columbus took the Natives; Matsui took the Chinese. Single men are constantly on the prowl for anyone who might catch their eye and satisfy their needs, and to those single men, I throw the sublime proclamation of Captain Jack Sparrow: "Take what you can, give nothing back!"

"Breathe, Tholomyès," said Blachevelle over the ensuing pause.

And taking advantage of the pause in speech, Blacheville, assisted by Listolier and Fameuil, struck up to beat, an improvised rap, the lyrics of which rhymed richly and not at all, as meaningless as the rise and fall of a light-than-aircraft: both are born of hot air, fallen as quickly as they rise. These are the verses they sang:

     “I broke up with my ex-girl; here’s her number.  
“Psych! That’s the wrong number!”

    “Sweet dollar tea from McDonalds: I drink that.  
“Supa Hot Fire: I spit that.  
“Two and a Half Men: I watched that.”

    “Glasses, jacket, shirt: call me glasses-jacket-shirt man.  
“Or call me supa hot boy hundred degrees leather jacket  
“‘Cuz I’m _supa hot, boy.”_

    “First of all, I’m not your friend,  
“So stop looking at me.  
“Second of all, I’m not a rapper,  
“So stop rapping at me.”

    “Boom, bam, bop,  
“Bada bop boom,  
“Pow.2”

This did not dissuade Tholomyès from his earlier task; he emptied his glass, refilled it, and began again:

"You know what? Forget everything I said before. We don’t need to be presidential or present or prestigious. A toast! Cheers to cheer! Fill ourselves with cheer. Close this lecture with an open bar and buffet! Consume the summation. Marry meditation and merriment! Glee in Golgotha! Yolo! The world is my oyster, and I am its pearl. And birds! How are they real? Life is a party! The birds are a chorus of Adeles tonight. Summer, I praise you! New York City! 7 year-olds and soon to be divorcees! The crowd of tourists across the street who have been staring at their maps the past ten minutes! The waiter at the next table — yeah, you! If I wasn’t promised to the upper class, I would have been a poet in a small cottage in the middle of nowhere, free of the trappings of technology and social standing. The untouched wood and sprawling plains call for me! All is beautiful. Flies buzz, birds fly — hold me, Fantine!"

And, without a moment of hesitation, he threw himself over Favourite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1Italian, “Good wine brings good cheer.” [return]  
> 2A reference to [this modern marvel](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fn9oXl9tyG0&feature=emb_title); the lads making up this masterpiece on the spot, rather than intentionally quoting this video, is my only intentional in-universe change from irl [return]
> 
> I kept a couple of the original puns and references in-tact because they held up pretty well as far as pretentious frat boys trying to impress people go.


	8. Mort d’une Voiture

"The food’s better at Celeste’s," said Zéphine.

"I like Olive Garden more than Celeste’s," declared Blachevelle. "It’s nicer, and it accepts card. And look at the art! It’s Italian!"

"I’d rather have the Italian on my plate," countered Favourite.

Blachevelle ignored her. "Look at the spoons. The handles are silver here and wooden at Celeste’s. Silver is obviously better."

"Except to those born with the silver in their mouth," pointed out Tholomyès. He was staring out the window at the streets below.

A pause ensued.

"Tholomyès," said Fameuil, "Listolier and I were just talking."

"Talking’s fine," replied Tholomyès, "but a debate is better."

"We were _debating_ philosophy."

"And?"

"Which do you prefer, Descartes or Spinoza?"

"Desaugiers," said Tholomyès. With this said, he took a drink and continued: "I accept the conditions of living. As long as we can be absurd, all cannot be lost, and I celebrate it. We lie, but we laugh. We believe, but we doubt. Two well-understood subjects can be brought together to mystify. It’s cool. It’s cool that, no matter what, we can appreciate life’s paradoxes. 

“Ladies, this vintage you’re so casually enjoying is a Merlot wine — obviously — with grapes hand-selected from vineyards all over the central and northern coasts of California, three thousand miles from here. You heard that correctly, three thousand miles! And the good Signore Garden, the magnificent keeper of this fine establishment, gives you those three thousand miles for a mere thirty dollars and fifty cents."

Fameuil interrupted again. "Tholomyès, your wisdom could bring world peace. Who’s your favorite author?"

"Richard —"

"Scarry?"

"No, Siken." With that, Tholomyès resumed his earlier thought. "Honor to the Garden of Olives! He would equal Aceituna of Jaén if he could but get me a _barragana,_ and Oliva of Sicily if he could bring me a _concubina;_ because oh, are there some ‘olive gardens’ in Spain and Italy. Google supports this. 

“God, it’s always the same around here; nothing new exists under the sun! _Nil sub sole novum,_ says Solomon; _amor omnibus idem,_ says Virgil; and med students armed with magazines storm Congress just as Veronica once advised Henry in his matters of estate. 

“Actually — ladies, do you know about Veronica Franco? Even though she lived during a time when women had no rights, she did; people said she was powerful and fiery, a true spectacle to behold. Veronica held in her both sides of women: she was an intellectual prostitute, Beyoncé and Kim Kardashian. She was made in case Prometheus needed another punishment."

Now started, it might have been impossible to get Tholomyès to cease had not a car come quite spectacularly to a sputtering halt just outside of the restaurant of its own Accord (for it was a Honda). The surprise of it brought both the speaker and the vehicle behind the car to a halt. The car was a 2001 model, old and dinked and perfectly well-suited to the driver at its wheel. On arriving at the intersection, the exhausted beast had given up. This earned the ire of the other drivers. The car’s owner had barely exited the vehicle before its hood gave a pop, black smoke billowing into the heavens. On hearing the honking of disgruntled drivers, Tholomyès's party turned their heads, and Tholomyès took advantage of the opportunity to bring his speech to a close with somber verse:

    "Life's like a road that you travel on  
“When there's one day here and the next day gone  
“Sometimes you bend, sometimes you stand  
“Sometimes you turn your back to the wind.”1

"Poor car," sighed Fantine sadly.

Dahlia gave a laugh at that. "Look at Fantine crying over a car. What a baby."

This was evidently the limit to Favourite’s patience: she crossed her arms, cocking a brow, and told Tholomyès, "Quit stalling! Show us the surprise!"

"You are quite right," replied Tholomyès. "Gentlemen, I do believe it is time to present these ladies with their surprise.” To the ladies he said, “If you will, wait here just a moment."

"Before we go: a kiss," said Blachevelle.

"On the forehead," added Tholomyès.

The ladies each received a kiss on the forehead from her respective partner before the four lads filed out.

Once the last of them had left, Favourite clapped her hands. "Oh, this is so exciting!"

"Don’t be too long," murmured Fantine. "We’re waiting."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1Rascal Flatts’s “Life is a Highway” [return]
> 
> Another chapter with a handful of references left be because the lads are So Fancy.


	9. Fin Joyeuse de la Joie

Left alone, the girls moved in on the windows in couples and chatted, twisting their torsos to speak from one table to the other.

They saw their young men leave Olive Garden, arm in arm, turn around, wave to them with a laugh, then disappear in the bustling Sunday crowd that takes possession of Times Square every week.

"Don't be long!" cried Fantine after them. There was no hope of them hearing: the window was sealed, the sounds of the city a well-practiced muffler.

"What do you think it’ll be?" asked Zéphine.

"Something pretty, it has to be," said Dahlia.

"I hope it’s gold," declared Favourite. “Oh! My phone!”

“Did something happen?” asked Dahlia.

“It’s missing. I thought I brought it along, but I must have left it in my flat — that’s what they call apartments in England. Anyway, no worries.”

They were soon distracted by movement across the street.

It was the peak hour for delivery and cab services, Times Square transforming into a means to an end. The majority of the traffic passed through without stopping. From moment to moment the girls watched as delivery vans splashed with brown and gold, white with purple and orange lettering, and mail carriers carried forth their holy missions; taxis of ethereal yellows and greens blurred by. This sight delighted the young girls. 

Favourite exclaimed, "What a show! Did you see the size of that one? It must have been carrying an entire apartment’s worth of furniture."

It happened that one of the vehicles, as they watched, came to a brief stop before speeding off again. This surprised Fantine.

"That's odd!" said she. "I thought the service never stopped."

Favourite gave a laugh. "Fantine, you are _so_ weird. You honestly fascinate me. The simplest things impress you! Let’s say I have plans on the other side of the city: I’d use my phone to call up the cab service and say, `Pick me up from Times Square at this time.' The service goes, sees me, stops, and takes me where I need to go. It happens all the time. How have you lived in New York City so long without knowing this?"

The girls proceeded to pass the time by discussing this. 

Suddenly, Favourite made a sharp movement. "Where are they?"

"Honestly, though," joined in Dahlia. "Where is this famous surprise?"

"They are taking a very long time," said Fantine.

As the last finished speaking, the waiter who had served them at dinner entered holding a phone. It was the phone belonging to Favourite which she had been missing.

"Where did you find this?" demanded Favourite.

The waiter answered, "The gentlemen you arrived with handed it to me on their way out."

"That was almost an hour ago! Why did you wait so long"

"Because," said the waiter, "the gentlemen told me not to give it to you until an hour had passed or you were leaving."

Favourite snatched the phone from the waiter’s hand.

"What’s this?" said she. “I have a video from a blocked number.”

    "SURPRISE.mp4"

She wasted no time in downloading the video and opening it.

“Hey Dahlia,” said Fameuil.

“Hey Zéphine,” said Listolier.

“Hey Favourite,” said Blacheville.

“Hello ladies,” grinned Tholomyès.

Behind them towered high white ceilings with exposed beams.

"So, obviously, we have parents,” said Tholomyès.

As he said this, the other three tried and failed to stifle laughter. 

“Oh, right, parents — plural of parent, from the Latin _parentus?_ I know it’s an unfamiliar concept to you all, so do try to keep up. Now, parents have a tendency to miss their dear and darling children, as we are. Ours specifically have been begging for us to return home, promising lavish parties and new cars and attendance to the sorts of functions you could only dream of. We’re devoted sons, so of course we have no choice but to do as they ask. By the time you see this —”

 _“Mmm whatcha say,”_ burst Fameuil and Listolier in simultaneous discord.

“Would you two shut up?” exclaimed Tholomyès. “Jesus, you’re annoying. As I was saying, by the time you get this, we’ll all be in our respective terminals awaiting the flights that will carry us to our dearest mamas and papas. Going home, back to the place where we belong, as Daughtry would say. Going, going, gone. We’ll be returning to society, duty, and order at 500 knots per hour from the comfort of first class.”

Here, Tholomyès graciously allowed the other three to whoop. 

“For the good of the country, we must return to our responsibilities to the world, as CEOs, police commissioners, politicians, and bearers of our family names. Venerate us, and keep our sacrifice in your heart. Do what you must to get over us and move on. If this video depletes you, delete it. 

“And with that, we bid you _adieu._ We have wasted almost two years in this shithole, and we don’t begrudge you it.”

With having been said, the video came to its abrupt close, amid blown kisses and cheeky waves.

“There’s also a text after,” said Favourite. “‘Dinner’s on us.’”

The four young women looked at each other.

Favourite was the first to break the silence. "Well-played, boys."

"It _is_ pretty funny," agreed Zéphine.

"It must have been Blachevelle's idea," continued Favourite. "Oh, I am in love with him — it’s true, absence does make the heart grow fonder!"

"No way," Dahlia disagreed. "This whole idea reeks of Tholomyès.”

"Fuck Blachevelle, then,” said Favourite with a shrug. “Hail Tholomyès!"

"Hail Tholomyès!" exclaimed Dahlia and Zephine.

They burst out laughing, Fantine along with them.

An hour later, safely returned to her room, Fantine wept. Tholomyès was her first love, as we have said. She had given herself over to this love without reservation, and now the poor girl had been abandoned, left on her own to raise a young child.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! 
> 
> I really, _really_ love hearing from y'all, so if you feel so inclined, _please_ leave me a comment below or reach out to me at my [tumblr](http://shitpostingfromthebarricade.tumblr.com)! (And don't forget to check out the other [Brick ReNouveauTions](https://brickrenouveautions.tumblr.com/) works as well!!)


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